Four Poems by Aaron Apps


Corrupt Matter

“Evil is not living, and that’s it. Dying is already something else. Dying is different from good and evil.”
—C. Lispector

When an obese buffalo leaps frightened off a cliff it crumples
Into blank sludge as it continues to articulate its four hoofs
Into a breathless brutality. The animal is a lucid expanse.
The animal roars mute as it comes out its own throat hole
Like blood. Like this modern obscene violence it comes out
Of my heart. The buffalo is thick and layered like bad sex
Juices. Marbled fluids. Together with the buffalo I wear them,
Their viscosity, as my ravished slush beads. My liquor fabric lush
Around this muscle, around this crimson scallop, beating
Death on a shell. Decorated. This Venus me so masculine
In the maelstrom of lips, claws, yellow teeth, exposed ribs,
And everything else in the vortex of leaking genitals. When
I move off the edge of the cliff, the ground, the man and earth,
I move into the animal that makes these awkward groans,
These poetries, these gut invented croakings. When I breathe
My chest is gelatinous as its repetitious heaving, as its lacerating
Mass makes death an unstoppable march toward detritus out
Of a clump of aborted ash formed into a body. When I turn,
Like a cheap vase, I turn into the heart of my own dead matter,
Ripe to the core, and I swell a bitter sap out of my cells
Within my zombie orgasm. I swell unbearable and profound
Flesh through the lens of the eye. I swell out into an attachment,
I swell into corrupt matter, leap after looping leap, as it dies me.


Queer Fat

I assume the fatty world to be a single long bench
Bent into a horrific shape slickly in this ruin porn.
I assume the many bodies on the bench are woven
Into the shape, bubbling on the ass space as food porn.
I assume the bench is not a bench but is a light post
Made out of skin that has fallen over into itself.
I assume an inhuman glow from the rusted electric
Surface so internal and everywhere in the conflation
Of this touching and clawing mood storm. Prolific
These lumps on the bodies cough in their holes
That are not empty but are weavings of the torn
Surface traced into the vibrant fact of painful things.
I assume friendship on the bench is a flood of weeds
Bent out of and into the bench in fine tendrils born
To lick each other as they disappear in and on mass.
I assume I am a tendril peering inside of myself lucid.
I assume I am a weed rootless in fat rooted in fat.
I assume the ass and board to be that coextensive.


Monkfish Have the Fattest Heads

The creature in my heart has butt lumps powdered with pain
In its crack, and each cheek of each crack has teeth
Like a disgusting monkfish, like a fish that has my own face.
My heart told me to shave my face raw and stick it in
To the lumpy infected crack. Literally. It told me this this
Morning after eating old hot dogs glopped with crunchy eggs.
If I put two monkfish like two cow’s hearts in a fish tank
They’ll beat their fins from their cartilage in a premodern mode.
If I place my dying face in a fish tank with another dying face,
If I place my infection with another infection in a small space,
If I place my heart in an apartment, my lips will become a ledge,
Or maybe my lips have already become a ledge, from which I
Don’t jump. But I was taught to jump like a monkfish deep
Into the Mariana Trench, into the mother and goose and Alice
And wonderland world. I was taught to jump into a fable,
I was taught to jump into abjection with my bug body brain.
But here I clack like a bug, like a fish, like a fish with a bug
On a string as I prey on my self with infinite creature teeth.
But here I still disease slowly in a small imaginary slime. So,
I continue to consume and am consumed, deeply lonely,
If not for the cavities in the bloody hearts in this plastic tank.
If not for the dull responsibility of being a poor man’s lobster.
If not for the broth of multiple fish buttery in the same slime.
If not for this creature in my heart requesting facial intimacy.


Marinade for “Decent” People

“Words are too crude. And words are also too busy—”
—S. Sontag

Strange. It’s discomforting how productive I can be, me in my strange fat,
Productive without consciousness, hypnotic and obscene, as I complicate stagnant
Poems—these chunky tasks, this lazy work, with a diarrhea that comes into a rare
Form, a relief, really, that is poured into a casting, into chalky white constipation,
Relief into relief. It’s discomforting how the fat froths and froths informally
Before drying into a world that hasn’t pooped in months, with its chalky mouth
And ass, with its holes that are my holes within my holes. I mostly just sink,
Slinky myself between the creases in the fat of the couch and hover swimmingly
Near the warmth of my fat house cat with his puffy cheeks. And I am murdered,
And I am a murderer too. And there are too many cats imploding on the cushions
And in the cushions too. I sit on the cats so they implode and I implode too.
I don’t so much write as I do collect my obscene extrusions. It’s discomforting
How little play there is, really, how there are too many dying cats, materially frothing
Like shit, like the foamy stuff that moves inside the cushion of my stomach,
My cushion in the couch, I cut, I hari kari, and it moves out, decomposing in time
Lapse, decompressing its cats out into the hairy world filling it with useless poetry,
Filling the wilderness of trash with a wilderness of trash, a screaming cat orgy.
Look at how productive I can be. Lick this dumb poem. Lick it like it’s my eye.
The tongue in the eye, the mortar and pestle, the mortality of cats and fat crushed.
Take the paste we make and rub it on your meat. Stick it in your holes. Marinate.
Strangely, this poetry is the moment when play goes over the ledge, when the game
Becomes murderous, when there are bodies within bodies shitting and eating in
The plastic menagerie of the red and green residencies of these murderous monopolies.


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